


Redacted

by discombobulate



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/discombobulate/pseuds/discombobulate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For approximately fourteen seconds, Sherlock's world shattered.</p><p>The moment between when Sherlock saw John appear at the pool and when he realised that John was Moriarty's hostage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redacted

The pool is cold, reasonably so; winter bites through the walls and the only heat is the stale heat from the florescent lights you found already on when he strode through the doors (conclusion: Moriarty already here, but not for any longer than six minutes).

So you stride around, pacing and searching for him, this new, interesting, fiendish human being.

You call out in the empty swimming pool, your voice echoing hollowly throughout (the ghost of yours own voice irritates your ears), trying to tempt and provoke Moriarty into showing his face.

And then—

“Evening.”

That voice, softer than your own in depth, but so, so very hard now, like he’s forcing granite from his vocal chords is instantly and devastatingly familiar.

You would think ‘he can’t be’, but that’s overly-romantic and altogether naive – of course he can be. It’s quite logical in fact, remarkably clever – being Moriarty, ‘John’ has been the only way to get under your skin and burrow into your cerebral cortex. The only person to be able to provoke feelings of friendship ( _fondness, affection, flattery, desire_ ) since [ **redacted** ] would, of course (stupid of him not to even consider this) be an illusion.

 _There is not a single person on this planet good enough for Sherlock Holmes_ – this one belief, moulded by loneliness and forged by bitterness and cooled to harden with grief had been easily crushed by John with one statement ( _It’s all fine_ – consider deletion?).

This friendship, as you watch it rot and smoulder in the steely gaze of John’s eyes, was nothing more than a farce. Deletion, after escape, is an irritating process, but it will be necessary. (“ _You don’t know how people carry the burden of their emotions through their lives, so you refuse to even acknowledge that there ever had been_ —“ **REDACTED** )

And yet you still breathe “John,” as though he can fix this.

His jaw tightens.

“What the hell,” you turn more fully, gun loose in your hand.

You can’t even bring yourself to threaten him, even though now you know – you _know_ who he is. Who he never was.

“This is a turn up, isn’t it Sherlock,” his tone is stiff, as though the words are unnatural in his mouth, and that’s when something clicks, and you know that you’ve miscalculated somewhere. The gears start and sputter in your head (slow, too fucking slow, you need to think through this properly, with less histrionics, if you please.)

You slink in his direction, head tilted as you observe: jaw clenched, uncomfortable; stance almost military, defiant; green parka he didn’t leave home with – question mark for later, not from Sarah’s it’s a man’s jacket; despite the barely-held-in-check anger in his stance, his head hangs curiously low as he gazes at you beneath knitted brows – wary, ashamed, sad.

Conclusion?

“What,” John forces out from between gritted teeth, and _oh._

“Would you like me.” Steady hands shift the hideous parka aside (feed coming in through his ear **John is a hostage** and well aware of what you believed for fourteen hideous seconds, what Moriarty - come out you rat bastard, how dare you, and you feel no more respect or kinship, it is swept away with waves upon waves of rage and disgust and it leaves you _howling_ inside - slipped into the folds of your mind.)

“To make him say next.” You hear a ragged exhalation from John as the wires and Semtex he’s strapped to are fully revealed.

“Gottle o’ geer. Gottle o’ geer,” you step closer, gun now steady in your grip (not as steady as John’s would be) and little of this night will be deleted except –

“Gottle o’ geer,” his voice breaks.


End file.
